The Rider
by Andrea Colt
Summary: Sam and Dean acquire the journal of a long dead hunter. Can it help them answer some of the questions they were left with in the wake of the YED's death?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story is set post AHBL. It's a story within a story, and this is the first time I've tried a story like this, so bear with me if the transitions are a little abrupt. Please leave me feedback and let me know how I'm doing. _

_Disclaimer: Sam and Dean aren't mine, more's the pity. Kripke et al still own them, I'm just borrowing them for a while._

**The Rider**

The young widower huddled under what was left of his heavy oak desk, his three year old daughter clinging to his side hiccupping as she tried to muffle her sobs. Her tears soaked into his shirt as she buried her face in his side. He had one arm around her, and the other cradled his six month old son against his chest. Outside the illusion of safety provided by the nook in the sturdy desk his house was being torn apart. His house seemed to be tearing _itself_ apart.

Books and knick-knacks swirled in a cyclone in his living-room, sweeping up more debris and growing in fury as it went. It sucked up the dog's squeaky toy, and the framed photo of his late wife, and his daughter's coloring book and crayons. He could hear the sounds of more destruction coming from other parts of the house, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the whirling mass of stuff that danced across the room.

He could also hear the voices of the two young men who had come by the day before posing as arson investigators. They claimed to be there to find the source of the fire that had taken his wife from him. He'd let them into the burnt wing of the old house, pulling aside the sheet of plastic that separated it from the untouched portion where he and his children still lived as they tried to piece their life back together around the void.

They had burst through the door again only minutes earlier, just after his collection of kitchen knives had flung themselves across the kitchen and impaled themselves in the wall inches from his head. He was pretty sure that they weren't actually arson investigators. Arson investigators didn't usually carry shotguns.

The taller of the two, the one who'd introduced himself as Sam, came into view on the far side of the room from the swirling vortex of the family's memories and décor. He carefully made his way to the corner of the house and used the butt of his shotgun to smash a hole in the drywall, ducking and rolling away at the last minute as the inexplicable tornado launched its cargo of pictures and toys at him. As soon as the hail of debris ended, the young man rolled back out from under the coffee table and shoved a red wrapped bundle into the hole he'd made in the wall. He immediately covered his head and ducked as a shockwave tore through the house.

The man under the desk thought for a moment that he'd gone deaf. Then he heard the soft sound of his daughter's sobs. A few seconds later he heard the other, older man yell, "You ok, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm good! You?" This was followed by a loud crash from the dining room.

"Oops. Sorry about the china cabinet. Yeah, I'm good."

The dark haired younger man picked his way across the littered carpet and crouched down to peer under the desk at the traumatized family. "It should be safe to come out now."

Sam moved back to give the man and his children some space. Dean sauntered in from the other room with his shotgun on his shoulder and a cocky grin spread across his face. "God I love this job. Another evil bastard bites the dust." He looked around at the devastation and whistled.

"Yeah, well, at least we got it before it hurt anyone else." Sam said as he helped the homeowner to his feet. "Mr. Harper, are you and your children alright?"

"Tom, please. And yeah, I think we're ok. Was that… that thing, was it what killed my wife?" Tom was shaky, but he was holding it together pretty well for a man who'd just been introduced to his first poltergeist.

"Honestly, we're not sure." Sam looked at Dean, whose cocky grin had vanished, replaced with a scowl.

"That bastard is dead." Dean said, reassuring himself as much as his brother, "This had to be some sort of copycat."

"What _was_ this?" Tom asked, gesturing around his destroyed house with his free hand before his scared daughter re-claimed it.

"A poltergeist. It's a malevo…" Sam started to explain, but Tom interrupted.

"Yeah, I know what a poltergeist is supposed to be. I had no idea they were real, though. This is just a bit much to process." The man looked a little pale, and his daughter was clinging to his side, tears running down her face. The baby had slept through the whole thing. Tom looked down at his daughter. "I want… I mean, I have a lot of questions… I need to get my kids out of here, though. Until I can clean the place up." He looked from Dean to Sam and back again. "Can you wait while I take Lucy and Scott to my sister's place? Or tell me how I can reach you later? I need to know… my wife… she…" He took a deep breath.

Sam thought about his and Dean's life, his father's quest for revenge after their own mother had been killed. He felt pity for Tom Harper. He really didn't want to have to tell him about what was out there in the dark. But he also didn't want Lucy and Scott to have to go through what he and Dean had. If they could give Tom some answers, maybe they could give him some closure, too. Maybe he wouldn't drag his children on a quest to find those answers as John Winchester had. "We're staying at the Dew Drop Inn, room 17. Get yourself settled and your kids taken care of, and come see us. We'll be there until tomorrow morning."

"Dude!" Dean was looking at Sam like he'd grown an extra head. This was not the way it was supposed to work. You came, you killed the nasty thing, and you got the hell out of Dodge. You didn't get involved in the fallout, and you didn't give hunting 101 lessons to civilians. Of course, he didn't always follow the rules himself. But still…

Sam gave him his patented soulful puppy-dog eye stare and Dean caved. "Yeah, we'll tell you what we can."

Tom thanked them and shook their hands, and Sam followed Dean out to the Impala.

Dean smacked Sam on the back of the head after they put their shotguns in the trunk of the classic Chevy. "Dude, what were you thinking? You gave him our room number."

"I was thinking that I don't want those kids growing up in crappy motel rooms while their dad crisscrosses the country looking for answers. Answers that we can give him." Sam folded his long legs into the passenger side of the Impala and shut the door, cutting off any reply from Dean. Dean rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel. He wasn't happy with it, but he had to admit that his kid brother had a point. He turned the key with a shake of his head. If their father were alive he'd be ripping them a new one for giving out their room number. They didn't know anything about Tom Harper except that his wife had died in a fire in his son's nursery on his son's six month birthday. Exactly the way Mary Winchester had died.

The Yellow-Eyed Demon was dead. Dean had put a bullet in the bastard's heart himself. All hell had broken loose, and they were trying to round up the escapees, but when Sam had stumbled across the article about the nursery fire they'd dropped everything to come check it out.

Dean cranked up the stereo to drown out the thoughts running circles in his head, the doubts that he didn't want to acknowledge. It was Guns and Roses, not his favorite, but it would do…

_I wake up in the morning  
And I raise my weary head  
I got an old coat for a pillow  
And the earth was last night's bed  
I don't know where I'm going  
Only God knows where I've been  
I'm a devil on the run  
A six gun lover  
A candle in the wind…  
_

* * *

Dean had his weapons and cleaning kit spread out across the queen size bed. He was running the bore brush through the barrel of his .45 when a knock sounded at the door. Sam was in the bathroom, and Dean's favorite weapon was dismantled. Great. Dean put down the stripped barrel of the pistol and picked up a shotgun he hadn't started on yet. He slipped a rock-salt round into the chamber and stalked quietly to the door to look through the peephole. With so many demons and spirits running loose, and the FBI on their trail, they couldn't be too careful.

Sam came out of the bathroom, crouching low to stay out of sight from the windows. He had heard the knock, too. He made his way to the bed and picked up a large silver bladed knife, crouching low and nodding to Dean that he was ready.

Dean peaked through the peep hole. It was Tom Harper. He looked back at his brother and rolled his eyes. He just lost twenty dollars to Sam because he'd been sure the guy would talk himself out of showing up. Dean stood and Sam moved closer to the door just in case. Holding the shotgun out of sight behind the door, Dean made sure the chain was in place and opened the door a crack, "Christo."

When there was no reaction from Tom other than a puzzled, "Huh?" Dean relaxed and closed the door enough to slip the chain off.

"Come on in." He opened the door wider, standing to the side just enough for Tom to slip in, but blocking the view of the weapons on the bed from any casual passerby who might glance into the room.

Tom was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on earlier, but now they were spotted with dust and there was a tangle of cobwebs on his collar. He held a leather wrapped bundle to his chest. His face was drawn, and he still looked a little shocked by the events of the day. He drew up short when he saw the arsenal on the bed.

Sam dropped his knife back onto the bed, "It's OK, Mr. Harper, just the tools of the trade." Sam put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder and led him to a seat at the little table in the corner of the room. Sam pulled the other chair around and sat, and Dean took a place on the corner of the clear bed, between Mr. Harper and the weapons.

"Please, call me Tom." He placed the bundle he'd brought onto the table, and as he set it down the leather wrap slipped back revealing what appeared to be a very old book.

"Ok, Tom," Dean spread his hands as if to say _the ball's in your court_.

"I, uh…" Tom looked down with a slight laugh and cautious smile at his own nervousness. "I have so many questions I don't know where to start." He looked back and forth between the brothers, "You're hunters, aren't you?"

Sam looked at Tom Harper in surprise. That was not the first question he'd expected. "Yeah. We're hunters. How did you…?"

"I never would have dreamed that it was all real if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." His hand moved across the leather cover of the old book as he glanced down at it. "I always thought he just had a very vivid imagination. Most of the family thought he was mad as a hatter."

"Who?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the old book.

"My five times great grandfather. He wrote about all of this stuff: poltergeists, ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves. His journal is filled with things out of nightmares, and the ways to kill them. I spent most of the evening digging through the attic trying to find this." He put his hand on the journal again. "I read it once when I was a kid, most everyone in my family has read it at least once. It's kind of a family tradition. None of us believed it was real, of course." He looked again at the brothers, "So, yeah, I know what hunters are, and what you do. You do what my ancestor did. You save people. The question that I have is this: was it the poltergeist that killed my wife, or was it something different?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. This was the tough question, and they'd expected to have time to work up to it. "This is going to be hard, but we need you to tell us about the night your wife died." Sam said, gently.

Tom took a deep breath and looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "Emily heard Scott crying, and she went to check on him. I stayed in bed. If I'd only gotten up instead of her… She would still be alive now." He paused, his breath hitching. Sam squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, and they gave him a minute to collect himself.

"She screamed. I ran into the bedroom to see what was wrong, but I didn't see her. Scott was there in his crib, and I started to walk toward him when I stepped in something wet. I flipped on the light and looked down. There was blood on the carpet. I bent down to look at it and more dripped. I looked up, and Emily was on the ceiling, her stomach was slashed open and she had this look on her face," tears spilled from Tom's eyes as he spoke, but he continued. His voice was flat and emotionless as if he was trying to distance himself from the horror he'd seen, "It looked as if she had seen something horrible. I stood up and reached for her, and then she burst into flames. I froze. I was sure it had to be some terrible nightmare. If Scott hadn't started crying I probably would have just stood there and burned up with her." He looked at the old journal again, "His wife died the same way." He put his hand on the cover of the old book an opened it to the first page, then shut it again, "Is my family cursed?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, dismay clear on his face. He looked over to his brother. Dean stood and turned to pace. He didn't want Sam to see the fear in his eyes. "It can't be him Sam. That bastard is dead." He turned back, "I shot him myself. I saw him die. This has to be something else."

Tom was watching them, confused. "Who?" He echoed Dean's earlier question.

"The demon that killed our mother." Sam explained, a range of emotions playing across his expressive features. "She died the same way your wife did. In my nursery. When I was six months old." He caught Tom's eyes and held them.

Tom's jaw went slack in surprise and puzzlement. "A demon?" His voice was small and tinny, and his skin went pale. Sam moved toward him a little, sure the man was about to faint. Tom put his face down into his hands, propping his elbows on his knees. He rubbed at his forehead and shuddered, looking back up at Sam and Dean from his hunched position. "I'd hoped… I wanted this to all be a dream - some kind of delusion." Tom's calloused, workman's fingers traced the binding of the old journal with wonder. "This is all very… confusing. I… I need some time to process this." He pushed the journal across the table to Sam, "Can you stay in town another day or two. I know I'm going to have more questions, and I want this journal back. I've got to get back to my kids."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean was faster, "Yeah. We can stick around a day or two." Sam gave his brother a puzzled look, but Dean waved him off.

Tom Harper stood shakily and shook Sam's hand, then Dean's. Without a word he walked to the door, but as he opened it he paused. "You said you shot the demon?" He looked at Dean, who nodded. "I guess that means you found Colt's special revolver then? I'd like to see it, sometime. If you still have it."

"Dude, how did you…?" Dean started to say, but Tom cut him off.

"It's all in the journal," and he was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean stared, speechless at the closed door for a beat before spinning to face his brother, "Sam you don't think that's…" he motioned to the journal.

"Only one way to find out." Sam pulled the journal closer to him and flipped it open. He used his foot to hook the chair that Tom had been sitting in and pulled it around closer for his brother, so they could both look at the old book. Dean secured the deadbolt and chain on the door and joined his brother at the table as Sam started to read aloud.

"The first entry is dated October 26, 1807. My dearest Elizabeth, I hope one day to be able to tell you all about your mother, and what has happened to her. But I know that the world is a hard and dangerous place, and my journey looks to be more dangerous than most. I will record all that I can so that if I don't make it back to you, you will at least know why. I want you to know beyond all else that I love you with all of my heart, and I would give anything to be there for you, to be a father to you, but I am a soldier, and I am crushed by grief, and I know I could not raise you with the love and care that you deserve. Your aunt and uncle are good people. They will give you the care that I am too shattered to provide for you.

Your mother's name was Rebecca Paine. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I loved her from the moment I first laid eyes on her. I was barely seventeen years old, and she was only a year older than I, but she seemed as out of reach to me as the stars in the sky. I had been in the U.S. Army for two years, and I was a dusty, know nothing private at his first frontier posting here in Tennessee. She was the mercantile owner's daughter – far above me in wealth and station, even by the modest standards of a small fort town. But her father, Ebenezer Paine, had been a soldier once himself. He had fought against the British when he was my age, and he remembered. So when he saw that we were in love he gave his blessing and we were married in May of 1806. You were born 11 months later, on April 12, 1807. We were a happy family. I had only one more year of my commitment to the army before I could muster out. We had plans to move into one of the new territories that were just opening to the west. There was free land to be had, all we would have to do was settle it and farm it. Your grandfather was even willing to give us enough capitol to start a small store of our own.

Two weeks ago those dreams were shattered, and they drifted away as ashes on the wind…"

Sam looked up from the journal, "Wow, he really writes well. Very moving."

"Enough with the critique, Oprah, what does it say about Colt's gun and the demon?"

With a roll of his eyes, Sam returned to reading the journal. "Well meaning people will try to tell you that your mother's death was an accident, but do not believe them. They will try to tell you that grief has driven me mad, but I am sane, and I know what I saw that night. Your mother was murdered, and I will not rest until I have discovered what unnatural thing caused it. She was against the ceiling, and her stomach was sliced open. The flames came not from a tipped lantern, but from her body, reaching out to engulf our home, and reaching out for me as I lay in shock as though they were directed by some malevolent intelligence. Had you not begun to cry I may have lain there and allowed myself to be immolated along with her, accompanying her to Heaven or Hell, and been content with it. But I could not abandon my responsibility to you. You saved my life in that moment.

I tried to tell people what had happened, even as they gathered a bucket brigade to fight the fire, but the pitying looks I got in return were enough to still my tongue. It was a week later, after the funeral, before I could even begin to speak again of what I had seen. I went first to Father Callahan, and that God guided me to him was a blessing. He assured me that I was not insane, and that there are things in this world, infernal forces, that most men refuse to see. He advised me not to pursue this course, but when he saw that I would not be swayed from revenging your mother's death, he directed me to a man who could help me. So, leaving you in the capable and loving care of your mother's sister, I set off to find him."

* * *

The young rider paused atop the rise in the light of the setting sun. His bay mare danced a bit as he looked down at the isolated cabin in the valley. His face was stubbled with three days of beard, and his eyes were under-shadowed by dark rings. Grief and weariness made him look far older than his eighteen years.

His long coat was travel-stained and worn. He had lost his hat, and his sandy hair was windblown and unkempt. His legs were stiff from days in the saddle, and his stomach growled to protest its emptiness. A thin stream of gray smoke spiraled from the chimney of the cabin, and even this far away he could smell roasting meat. He had been riding for five days across the rolling hills of Tennessee and into the Missouri territory, and he was weary to the bone. With a click of his tongue, and a gentle nudge of his heels, he set the mare to a gentle trot down the hill.

He approached the cabin slowly, giving the occupant plenty of time to see him coming and to see that he was no threat. Father Callahan had warned him that Roland Léglise was a paranoid man, and was as likely to shoot him on sight as he was to help him. The wind stirred up little whirling devils in the dry dust of the cabin's yard.

The young man dismounted at the edge of the yard and led his horse the last few yards. The cabin door opened a crack, and he froze as the barrel of a musket appeared in the opening.

"That is far enough. Raise your hands so that I can see them." The voice was harsh and deep. There was the barest trace of a French accent, and the tone brooked no arguments. The young man did as he was ordered. "Good. You see the iron post to your left? Touch it, then show me your hand."

Puzzled, but not about to argue with the gun trained on him, he did as he was told. He lay his hand on the post for a long moment, and then pulled it back and held it palm outward so the man in the cabin could see.

"Good. You may tether your horse to the post."

"My name is Jacob Granger. Father Michael Callahan of St. Mary's near Fort Marr, Tennessee told me how to find you. He says you might be able to help me." Jacob spoke as he tethered the horse, trying to hide the nervous waver in his voice.

"Did he? I shall have to have words with him about sending strays to my door if I ever see him again." The door swung wider and a tall, wiry man with a shock of wild black hair stepped onto the porch. His musket never wavered from Jacob's chest. His face was tanned and deeply lined. His nose was hooked like an eagle's beak, and a jagged scar ran down the left side of his face, missing his left eye by only a hair's breadth. Touches of grey at his temples, deep lines at his mouth and eyes, and a hard, knowing look in his eyes gave Roland Léglise the air of a man who had seen much in his life, little of it good.

His face was impassive as he looked Jacob up and down, taking his measure. After a long moment he spoke again with a weary, slightly annoyed tone, "So, are you going to tell me what it is you need help with, or are you going to make me guess. I'm no good at guessing games."

Jacob opened his mouth to speak, but his carefully prepared speech deserted him and all he could think about was the dark eye of the musket trained on his chest. He could feel the burn of anger starting to creep its way toward his mouth. His temper had gotten him in plenty of trouble in his life, and his fear almost always turned to anger. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Father Callahan _had_ warned him about Léglise and his paranoia, and he would be more likely to get the help he needed if he could keep a civil tongue. "I was told that you know about things, that you know how to kill evil things. My wife is dead, and nothing natural did it." He met Léglise's eyes and held them, "I want to learn about these creatures, and I want to learn how to kill them."

Léglise lowered the musket, but he held Jacob's hazel gaze for a long moment. Finally he nodded and turned back to the house. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I suppose there is enough for two. You can tell me more as we eat." The tall man disappeared back into his cabin, leaving the door open behind him.

Jacob stared after him, puzzled by the grizzled old hunter's abrupt manner. Taking his words for an invitation, even though he hadn't been directly invited in, he crossed the yard and followed the old man into the cabin.

"Mind your step, boy. Don't disturb the line." Léglise's clipped tones came from the gloom of the cabin as Jacob reached the threshold. Pulling up short, Jacob glanced down to see a line of coarse salt across the doorway. He stepped carefully over it and looked around the interior of the cabin. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the harsh light outside. He blinked a few times until the deep shadows resolved into the muted brown shapes of simple, rough wooden furniture and shelves stacked with books and jars of herbs and strange objects. The room was lit with only a few candles and the orange embers of a fire in a large stone fireplace. A rabbit was spitted on an iron rod over the fire, and another pot bubbled on the coals near it. Léglise turned the rabbit on the spit and the juices running from it sizzled on the hot coals. The smell was heavenly, and Jacob's stomach rumbled again, loud enough to pull a chuckle from the dour Frenchman. "Come, sit."

Jacob pulled a little stool over to the small table and sat down, still watching the other man carefully. Without another word, his host scooped up a bowl of the rich stew from the pot and sliced off a hunk of the roast rabbit. He set the food in front of Jacob and got more for himself. Sitting on another low stool across the table, Léglise watched as Jacob tore into the food with a mumbled thank-you.

"Salt keeps out many evil things. Others cannot enter without an invitation, and there are certain herbs that are poison to diabolic creatures. You entered my home, and you are eating some of those herbs, and you can touch iron without being burned. So, I know you are human. I do not know if I can help you, but I suppose it will cost me nothing to at least listen to your tale."

Jacob swallowed his mouthful and paused a moment. He went over the events of the past few weeks in his mind, flinching away from the memories of the night his wife died. He would have to recount them, despite the pain. That was the whole reason he was here. He put down his fork, and as Léglise dug into his own food Jacob began telling him his story.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sam paused to wet his throat with a drink, and Dean returned to the bed to finish cleaning the weapons as his brother read. "Roland Léglise was a hard man. He was gruff, rude, and at first seemed uncaring of my plight. He did, however, offer me a place to sleep that night. The next morning I rose early. My nights have been troubled and plagued by dreams since the night of your mother's death, and sleep has not been my friend. Léglise was still abed, so, to thank him for the meal and place to sleep I went out into the yard and began to chop wood. I found the exercise calming, and it gave me a chance to clear my mind and decide what I should do next. If Léglise would not help me I was at a loss for where to go next. But he surprised me."

.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.

Jacob's brow ran with sweat despite the chill of the autumn morning. His thin cotton shirt clung to the skin of his back, and his sandy hair scattered wildly around his face with each swing of the axe. He was absorbed in his task, the rhythmic rise and fall of the axe, the effort to spilt each log cleanly, knock it aside, replace it, swing again with a grunt of effort. It was easier to concentrate on the simple, ordinary job. The burn in his muscled shoulders was kinder than the deep ache in his heart and the stab of uncertainty about his future and the small pang of being let down by his hope of help.

The dark Frenchman watched him from the shadowed doorway of the cabin. He had heard the boy crying out in his sleep. It had stirred the memories of his own past, his own pain. The life he had lived, the job he had been doing for as long as he could remember, they had hardened his heart, made him cynical. But somewhere beneath the layers of leather and stone that he had grown to armor himself from the cruelties and nightmares he was still a kind man. He regretted his harsh words, and his uncaring dismissal of the young man's pleas.

His first instinct had been to turn Jacob away, to make him return to what was left of his family, to protect him from the truth. He had growled at him and told him to go home. Roland liked his solitary life, or so he told himself. He didn't need a young pup barking at his heels and getting underfoot. The boy would just get hurt. He would end up as just as hard and lonely, and with more nightmares to add to the ones he already had. If he even survived. He should go home to his daughter, mourn his wife, and move on with his life.

But Roland also recognized the glint of steel in the boy's gaze, he had had the same determination in his own, once. He knew that Jacob would not be content to go home, would not be content ever again. The young man was a fighter. It was time to pass on what he knew, the knowledge he had gained through a lifetime of pain and struggle. He was getting old, and someone would have to carry on the fight.

He crossed the yard and leaned his arms on the low rail fence near where Jacob was chopping. He waited for the young man to notice him. When the sounds of the axe hitting wood ceased he began to speak without looking over. "When I was a boy, younger than you are now, a terrible thing happened in my little village in Gévaudan." Roland looked out over the low hills as he spoke, but in his mind he saw the mountains around the little village in the French countryside where he had been born. Jacob leaned on the axe and listened. "It started with the disappearance of a young girl. She had been playing with her friends, but as dusk fell she left them to hurry home before dark. That was the last time anyone saw her. All that was found was a torn ribbon and a stain of blood on the path. The villagers feared bandits, and the woods were searched, but no trace of her was found.

"The next night a young woman was taken. She had been in sight of the village, and we heard her screams. Her body was found in a shallow ravine half a mile from the town. She had been torn to shreds, and her heart was missing. We were poor farmers, simple people, but we armed ourselves as best we could with pitchforks and rusted swords and stout clubs and went out to find the beast that had done this horrible thing. But we did not find it, and the third night another young woman was taken. This time from her own yard on the edge of the village.

"There were no more attacks for a month, then we heard of another attack nearby, in the village of Langogne. This time the girl survived. She told of a large wolf-like beast that leapt from the woods. It was driven off by a bull. There were more attacks, and many were killed, mostly women and children. We were terrorized by this creature for nearly three years. The King even sent his huntsman to kill the thing, but he was a fool. He killed a wolf, and had it stuffed and sent to King Louis. It was an unnaturally large wolf, but it was not the beast, and the killing went on.

"But there was one man who knew what was going on. He had come to our village soon after the first attacks. He was armed with a sword, and a musket, a Bible, and a pistol loaded with silver shot. He fascinated me as he searched methodically through our village and through the woods and mountainsides nearby, and I started to follow him. I stayed quiet, and only watched what he was doing, but he noticed my determination and he began to talk to me as he worked, telling me about what he was doing, and about what he was hunting. I never spoke a word. I only absorbed what he did, burned it into my heart. The first girl who was killed had been my baby sister. I wanted to learn to hunt the beast so that I could kill it and avenge her.

"When the next attacks happened at Langogne he went there, and I followed him. When he saw that I was not going to return home, he took me as his apprentice. His name was Jean Chastel. It took him three years to find the loup-garou, but eventually he did, and he killed it. During that time I learned to hunt and to kill a number of other things as well. I learned to exorcise demons, to lay unquiet spirits to rest, to kill vampires and many other things that prey upon us in the darkness.

"When my soul grew weary of the nightmares I came here to this country to escape them, but there is no escape. We brought our monsters with us, and the people who were here before had monsters of their own. Once you know what is in the dark, once you know how to kill it, you have no choice. You cannot turn a blind eye to it. You already know the pain that these monsters can cause, and you will never be able to stand aside and watch as they cause pain to others if you know you can do something to stop it. For forty years, and over two continents I have hunted these beasts, and there is no rest."

Roland fell quiet. His chest was tight with emotion. It was the most he had said to anyone in a very long time. Jacob did not speak, he only watched the older man. After a very long moment Roland turned to the boy. He looked into his eyes and saw the pain and determination there. He nodded. "Think hard on it. Decide. If you are still here in the morning, I will train you." And he swung himself over the rail he had been leaning on and walked away across the field and into the woods, his long legs carrying him swiftly.

.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.

"Holy cow! This guy hunted the Beast of Gévaudan!" Sam looked up from the journal, his eyes wide with awe.

"The beast of who?" Dean paused in his cleaning to look up at his brother with a puzzled lift of his eyebrow.

"Famous werewolf attack in France in… I think it was the 1760's." Sam explained.

"Oh yeah, didn't they make a movie about that? It was in French wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that's about the only time I remember you ever watching a movie with subtitles."

Dean shrugged, "Hey, it was a good flick." He clicked the pieces of his pistol back together and tested the action. "Skip ahead a little, we don't need to know about his training. We got that first hand. Didn't Dad say that Colt made his gun in the 1830's?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, but there may be more in here that's important." He caught the look Dean gave him and nodded, a little disappointed. He sighed, "You're right, though. I'll have to ask Tom if I can make a copy of this so I can read all of it, I guess." He flipped ahead several pages, skimming as he went, until something caught his eye.

"August 23, 1814. This week has been one of the darkest in my life, and I am sorry to report to you that your beloved Uncle Roland has been taken away from us. For seven years he had been my teacher, mentor, and steadfast friend. He told me once that you reminded him of the sister he lost so many years ago, and I know that he loved you almost as much as I do. When he joined me for visits it was the only time I would ever see him smile. You gave him a chance to be a normal man, a doting uncle. You are a spot of light in the darkness for me, and I believe you were for him as well.

"He was killed as he lived, stubbornly fighting against the beasts. We had traveled south to the port city of Mobile in Spanish West Florida. Though I suppose it is American West Florida now. Roland had heard tales of mysterious deaths there, and we went to investigate them. The city was still in a state of chaos because of the recent Creek Indian War, and the troubles with the British. There are many creatures that would find the battles and bloodshed of war an irresistible beacon, a feast to be taken advantage of."

.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.

The docks were a confusion of sights and sounds. The smell of salt water, tar, and fish filled the air, and Jacob could make out at least four different languages being spoken. The snap of canvas in the wind, bells and waves and the rumble of cart wheels on the wooden planks of the docks joined with the cries of hawkers and fishmongers. There were people everywhere. This was his first experience of a seaport, and he strained to see far out into Mobile Bay through the forest of ship's masts and rigging, to take in all of the bustle and diversity. His excitement was cut short by a sharp smack to the back of his head.

"Get your head back in the game, boy. We've no time for sightseeing." Roland's affectionately gruff reminder brought Jacob back to the business at hand. They needed to hire a river guide to take them up into the swamps at the north end of the bay. Whatever it was that was killing people had most likely come from there, if the mud and reeds found with the bodies was any indication.

They had already spoken with two rivermen who, they had been told, had experience with the swamps, and both had adamantly refused to take them. The swamps were deadly, they said, there was a monster there, or an Indian curse. The stories were jumbled, but the result was the same. No one wanted to venture into the estuaries where the Mobile and Tensaw rivers emptied into the bay. No one sane, anyway. So now they were on the docks to find a man who was crazy enough to take them where they needed to go.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"We searched the docks for hours before we finally found the man. He did, indeed, have the look of insanity about him. His hair was wild, and one of his eyes always looked off to the right regardless of where his other eye settled. But despite his uncanny appearance, his one good eye held piercing intelligence. We had been told that he would do anything for a price, and he had no concern for his own life, and those things proved to be true. He was a most unpleasant traveling companion. He spoke what was on his mind seemingly with no censor between his thoughts and his mouth. But he knew the swamps, and he was willing to take us."

Dean interrupted, "Do we really need to hear this part? I mean, so far they haven't mentioned Colt or the revolver."

"Dean, any piece of this could be important, but besides that, aren't you even the least bit curious about what life was like for a hunter back then?" Sam looked over the top of the journal at his brother, "This is fascinating stuff. I can read it quietly if you really don't want to hear it."

Dean shook his head, "No, go ahead. I may as well listen. This is the last time we get a room without cable, though." He gestured to the ancient television with the rag in his hand. "Nothing better to do."

Sam shook his head and picked up where he'd left off. He snuck a glance at his brother and saw that, despite his words to the contrary, Dean actually was interested in the story. "The man's name was Joseph Delacroix. His boat, a small, shallow affair called a pirogue, was barely large enough for the three of us. Most of the space aboard it was filled with crab-pots and fishing gear."

.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.o0o.

"Damned mosquitoes, lived here nigh on twenty years, I'll never get used to the little bloodsuckers." Delacroix slapped at his arms, "Mind my traps, boy, I can't afford to have you dumping them overboard. We'll be into the swamps soon. Nasty place. Full of injuns and gators. Dunno what you want up here. You fellas ain't hunting escaped slaves, are ya? Cause I tell ya right now that's a nasty business. Been stories about folks dying mysterious up here. They say there was rice plantation burned to the ground, and all the slaves just went into the swamp, turned themselves into gators with that black hoodoo they do. Still living out here eating up any white man foolish enough to come looking."

Roland shifted in his seat, watching as the tall reeds of the marshes grew closer. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to draw Jacob's attention to what he had seen. A large alligator slipped from between the stalks of sawgrass and into the water, vanishing with barely a ripple to mark its passing. They had said very little on the trip, it being very hard to get a word in with Delacroix's constant nattering. As the boatman paused for a breath, Roland took his opportunity, "Do the gators ever come into town?"

"Naw. They're shy, for all they look like a thing out of a devil's nightmare. They'd just as soon stay out of the way of a man, unless you catch a bull during mating season. Have heard tale of a couple of deaths in town, though. Sounds like gators, but if it is, it ain't natural. Gators don't like to go where the people are." Delacroix spit into the water as he put down his paddle. They coasted into the shallows and he pulled a long pole from its place along the side of the boat and shifted to a standing position near the back of the boat. He aimed the pirogue for a narrow channel in the sawgrass and began to pole the boat into it.

Roland gave Jacob a meaningful glance. They had seen the bodies of two of the victims, and they certainly looked like they had been attacked by an alligator, a very large alligator. But unless this particular alligator had learned to unlock doors and navigate stairs, it was unlikely a natural gator could have done the killing. There had been four deaths so far, and the only thing the victims had had in common was that they were all slave owners, or somehow involved in the slave trade. Just this once, Jacob sympathized with the monster. If anyone deserved killing it was a man barbaric enough to think he had the right to own another man. But that wasn't their job. Killing the monsters was.

For over a year there had been stories coming out of the swamps about men who could turn themselves into alligators. Or about an alligator that could speak like a man. Or a hundred variations on the theme - Indian magic, African hoodoo, escaped slaves and alligators. Roland and Jacob had their muskets loaded with silver shot. That was the one common thing to all shapeshifters, regardless of what form they took.

The heat and humidity were oppressive, like a blanket of wet cotton batting pressing down on them. Sweat streamed down Jacob's face and into the collar of his shirt, adding to the already uncomfortable itch from the myriad of mosquito bites that lined his arms and cheeks. The sawgrass pressed close. Delacroix had warned them not to grab at it with bare hands - it lived up to its name. When a stray blade sliced across his cheek and left a stinging scarlet trail where it had passed, Jacob shuddered at the thought of being lost in these marshes, cut to ribbons by the very grass.

It didn't take them long to pass through the belt of sawgrass and into the swamps. The grass changed over to reeds, then to cypress knobs and brackish water tinged green with algae. The swamps were crawling with life. They had a song unlike anything Jacob had ever heard before – the calls of frogs, the drone of the seven year cicadas, the buzzing of flies and mosquitoes, the cry of a blue heron startled from its fishing spot in the shallows – it all blended together in a symphony. It was jarring when all of that sound suddenly ceased.

As they passed beneath the cathedral like reaches of the ancient cypress trees draped with Spanish moss the swamp seemed to take in a breath and hold it, as if waiting anxiously to see what would happen next. Roland and Jacob checked the loads in their pistols and peered out into the murky greenness around them. Even Delacroix paused his seemingly endless stream of chatter.

Roland noticed them first. He nudged Jacob's knee and motioned with his pistol. All that showed of them were their eyes. A ring of them surrounded the pirogue, six at least. Their long scaled bodies were hidden by the algae coated water, but the eyes were enough. Alligators. Big ones. They watched the occupants of the small flat-bottomed boat with cold reptilian intelligence, unwavering in their regard.

"What are they doing? Why are they just watching us like that?" Jacob whispered as a large bead of sweat threaded its way down the back of his neck. He shivered despite the heat, his eyes tracking from one gator to the next.

"Unnatural," Delacroix crossed himself and muttered a hasty prayer.

"Steady, boy. I think they just want to see what we're about." Roland scanned the area with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, but I already know what you are about, white man." The voice boomed through the swamp, round and deep and touched with the musical cadence of Africa. "You are looking for Uncle Monday, and you have found him, much to your misfortune." At the sound of the rolling voice the gators surrounding the pirogue became active, churning up the water with lashes of their great tails, circling the small craft ominously. Very faintly the sound of rhythmic drumming drifted through the swamp. The motion of the gators pushed the light boat deeper into the swamp, and Jacob met Roland's eyes with worry as he began to recognize the sound of chanting intertwined with the drums.

There was nothing they could do but hold their weapons and wait while the gators pushed them to some unknown destination. Jacob and Roland had a musket and pistol apiece, but they would have only one shot with each, and there were too many gators in the water around them. Any other action would upset the boat and dump them in among the toothsome terrors. And they still hadn't seen the owner of the deep baritone voice. It seemed that this Uncle Monday was indeed the creature for whom they were searching.

After seven years of hunting together very little needed to be said between them. A sharp glance from Roland was enough – stay alert, watch and wait, look for the opportune moment.

The pirogue ground out on a hummock of grass and mud, a small island of solid earth in the seemingly endless expanse of murky water. The gators stopped at the edge of the water, blocking any chance of retreat in the boat, but they did not pull themselves onto the island, leaving the way clear for the three men.

Delacroix stood, his hands held before him in a placating gesture, his voice shaking as he pleaded, "I don't want no part of this. I don't mean no harm to you or your like. I was just hired to pole the boat and I don't want no part of this."

Roland cursed the man for a coward under his breath, but they waited to hear any reply that might come. It came with a rolling laugh that held no merriment, "Yet here you are. You showed these men into my place, so you will live or die as they do. Come, hunters, let me show you the hospitality of the Crocodile Clan."

The boat lunged and jerked, bashed from behind by the tail of one of the huge reptiles, shoved further onto the island and leaving the three men with no option but to climb out of it. Roland stepped onto the island first, his sharp eyes scanning the area around them.

The little island was held together by a few low bushes, their roots stubbornly anchoring the soil against the sluggish flow of the swamp. Near the center of the island a huge old live oak stood, its branches stretching out like a canopy and weighed down by curtains of Spanish moss. A small fire flickered in the gloom beneath its shade. Standing beside the fire was a man, his skin as dark as midnight, his head bald, and his shoulders broad. His teeth gleamed in the darkness as his deep laugh rolled across the swamp.

At the sound of that laugh a shiver ran down Jacob's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Roland kept his eyes locked on the man before them, but a splash from behind drew Jacob's gaze. He watched in awe and terror as the gators in the water moved forward – and stepped onto the island as men. The alligator forms slipped from them, seeming to sluice down their skin like the water that ran from their naked black and bronze bodies. They were a mix of black Africans and red-skinned natives, strong and lean. They formed a semi-circle, flanking the hunters and their guide and blocking their escape. There were seven of them.

Jacob laid a hand on Roland's shoulder in warning. Then he moved so that they stood, back to back, their weapon's drawn.

"Think you that your silver shot will save you, oh, mighty hunters?" The dark man sneered, "You do not know what you have stumbled into." He stepped forward from under the overhanging branches of the oak into the thin green light. Swirling tattoos – an inky darkness against the pitch of his skin – stood out in rows and dotted ridges, giving him a ferocious aspect. "I have faced many such as you, and I will live to face many more." He snarled, "It was men like you, pale and hiding behind your guns, and ignorant of the true way of the world, who dragged me from my home and sold me to slave for a rich pig. But they did not know who they had taken. I am a brother to Crocodile, and he has blessed my people. We will not lie down. We will not bend to the will of the arrogant white man who thinks he can rule this earth."

"Arrogant bastard, aren't you?" Roland replied, a mask of calm covering his face. Jacob recognized the look. Roland's face always smoothed to that deceptive, deadly calm before the fighting started. Roland edged slightly to the right, pushing Jacob gently to face the men to the left of them. "I don't care why you are doing what you are doing. You are a killer. There will be no mercy from me." And he took his shots. Jacob fired at almost the same time, first with his musket, putting the ball of silver shot into the stomach of the Indian across from him, then dropping it to pull his pistol. His second shot took the next man in the head as he lunged forward to attack. Jacob dropped that gun as well, now useless. He pulled a huge Bowie knife from his belt and turned to face a third man.

Behind Jacob, Roland had also used his two shots to drop two of their attackers. He pulled his sword from its sheath at his belt and readied for the fight. There were three of the naked alligator-men left, and their leader, who was roaring with outrage.

The three remaining men shifted their shapes yet again, their faces elongating into snouts full of razor teeth, and their skin thickening to leathery hide. They remained upright, halfway between men and beasts. Delacroix fell to his knees, whimpering. Jacob sneered in disgust as the boatman's pants darkened with moisture. The man had wet himself. He was a coward, but he was still a human being. Jacob and Roland moved put the cowering man between them. The gator-men circled them.

Roland aimed a light kick at Delacroix, not to hurt him, but to get his attention. "If you will not fight, at least reload our pistols," he hissed, never taking his gaze from the circling enemy.

The bravest of the gator-men lunged forward, his razor lined maw gaping open for a bite. Roland obliged him by giving him a taste of his steel. He thrust the sword into the creature's mouth, angling it upward to emerge from the top of the gator-man's head. A second beast rushed Jacob, bearing the younger man to the ground with its weight.

Jacob's knife went into the monster's shoulder, pulling a hiss of pain and rage from the gator-man. The knife lodged there, though, trapped between two bones, and Jacob was unable to pull it free with one hand. His other arm was pressed below the gator-man's jaw trying to hold back those rows of deadly teeth from ripping off his face. Giving up on retrieving his knife, he twisted it instead, drawing another anguished hiss from the beast. Jacob used the moment of his foe's weakness to put his strength into a roll, flipping the creature onto its back and pinning it. He shoved upward on the gator-mans jaw, forcing its head back at an unnatural angle.

Roland had joined in combat with the last of the gator-men. This one was smarter than the rest, or knew something of dealing with swords. It feinted toward Roland's left side, then turned away from the Frenchman's blade back to the right, dropping low to grab Roland's right leg in its jaws and lifting the man, flinging him to his back in the muck. It released Roland's leg as it dropped him, though, which was a mistake. Roland rolled away to the left as the beast flung its weight onto the spot where Roland had been. As soon as the creature hit the ground Roland rolled back to the right, bringing his sword around in a powerful chop, taking the gator-man's head from his shoulders.

Roland let out a breath and tried to scramble to his feet, but his badly torn right leg would not hold his weight. He could see Jacob still struggling with the gator-man that had attacked him. Then an unearthly sound pulled his gaze to where Uncle Monday had stood. The huge black man was changing with a roar that shook the ground. Where he had stood there was now a monstrous crocodile, fully twenty feet long. It was a primordial beast, its eyes glittering with cold anger. It moved with unbelievable speed across the intervening ground. Roland rolled again, barely eluding the powerful jaws of the monster.

Jacob saw the massive beast attack his mentor. "Roland!" he cried as he struggled with the gator-man. The gator-man took advantage of his moment of distraction and pulled himself loose, using his strong tail to flip them again, pinning Jacob helplessly beneath him. His teeth came down for a killing blow… and his head rocked backward as a shot rang out.

Delacroix had managed to control his shaking hands for long enough to reload one of the pistols. He had put a ball of silver through the eye of the monster from only a few inches away. Jacob pushed the dead weight of the beast's corpse away from him. He scrambled to his feet, giving the shocked boatman and nod of thanks. Then, weaponless, he went to help his mentor and friend. He rushed toward the giant crocodile, looking around for some sort of weapon.

The sound of a terrible impact brought his attention back to the fight in time to see Roland flung through the air by a powerful swing of the monster's tail. Roland hit the ground hard, and lay unmoving. Jacob scooped up one of the empty muskets and gripped it by the barrel. The massive reptile turned toward him, moving deceptively fast for all its size. Jacob jumped to the side at the last second and brought the musket down with all his strength onto Uncle Monday's eyes. The beast roared with pain and thrashed its head and tail wildly, temporarily blinded by the pain of the blow. Jacob threw himself backward away from the madly thrashing crocodile.

The man-monster, still half blind, chose the better part of valor and made its way to the water, slipping in to the green, brackish water with barely a splash. As Jacob rushed to Roland's side, Uncle Monday's voice echoed back to him from the swamps, "Pray that we do not cross paths again. Next time I will be better prepared, and you will be the one who lies dead."

Jacob ignored the taunt. Roland was not moving. Blood leaked from the older man's mouth. As Jacob felt at his throat for a pulse Roland's eyes opened. He coughed weakly, more blood foaming from his lips. "Jacob. You live." His voice was weak, and his eyes were barely open.

"Yes, and Monday is gone. Hush, now. You're injured, but I don't know how badly." Jacob began pulling his friend's shirt open to look for wounds, but Roland weakly put a hand on his, staying him.

"I'm done, boy. He's broken things inside me. Go home. Go back you your daughter." He coughed again and his eyes shone fever bright for a moment, "Don't become a bitter old man like me." The last breath rattled out of him as he spoke, and his eyes went dull, his hand fell limp.

"No! NO! Roland!" Jacob screamed his anguish at the loss of his friend into the swamps. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he gently closed the old man's eyes. Jacob closed his own eyes for a long minute in grief, then he whispered, "It's too late, my friend. You were right all those years ago. Now that I know what's out there, I'll never be able to stop hunting it. But I will try not to become as bitter as you." A small, sad smile touched his lips, but was gone quickly, buried beneath the tide of grief and anger that washed over the young hunter.


End file.
